


Green Leaves Before Sunset Gold

by Shoujo_Nosferatu



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, Romance, a little angst i guess, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 03:35:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11394537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shoujo_Nosferatu/pseuds/Shoujo_Nosferatu
Summary: i wrote this in like 2014 or 2015 just to get some headcanon garbage out and some friends wanted to read it so it can live here now. i haven't really cleaned it up since so the tenses might still be weird. uhhhh that's it, they're gay





	Green Leaves Before Sunset Gold

They are settling down in the forests of Fangorn. Many many years have passed since the War of the Ring. They are together making the trip they once took years ago. It was Legolas’ wish and, perhaps, Gimli had been inside his caves too long. They talk of old friends and new developments in their respective kingdoms. They talk of their friend Aragorn, vowing to drag him away from the White City so they may wander together again as the Three Hunters. Legolas feels so young, as a fawn. There is a lightness in his heart that could almost sway him from returning to the sea. Almost.

They talk of Lady Arwen, and eventually, wives. Only one of the three hunters ever married, and how strange? The marrying age is far beyond Legolas. Not all Elves wed, he explains. And Dwarves dedicate themselves to their craft, it is not so? Yes, Gimli nods, he had waited to see if love came to him upon his return, for Dwarves love slowly. What does he mean, Legolas asks? It is not as with Men, who court and marry before a dwarfling comes to nurse, Gimli explains, and they share a laugh at the fast and fickle hearts of Men. Dwarves are fast in friendship but the friendship must prove durable and lasting before most Dwarves feel the pull of their hearts. That is why, if refused marriage, many choose simply not to marry. It is not merely stubbornness, though of course, Dwarves are that too. It is dedication to a relationship that already has thirty, fifty, perhaps even one hundred years behind it. For some Dwarves the love blossoms into a gentle comfort; for others, it is as if a sudden spark has been lit in them, and something familiar suddenly becomes new and exciting. But it is always a thing of time.

Legolas considers this. Though Elves have so much time, their love still comes upon them as simply as would a Man’s. He thinks of Beren and Luthien, of Aragorn and Arwen, finding neither had to wait very long for his Elven maiden’s heart to echo his own. Yet, when Elves love each other, though the fire lights in them they feel no rush, for to two Elves together time is but a passing thing, it is forgotten, and seasons can pass in just sharing a smile. Elves are patient.

And you found no love for your companions, he asks the Dwarf. Gimli pauses. They are sitting beneath a tree now, and the day is still young. So I thought, he says slowly, considering his words. It is not uncommon for Dwarves to have heart only for the craft. And Legolas feels his heart pounding. Gimli continues, halting, that lately he has had a nagging thought and cannot be sure. And now he is here, and he does not know.

And he looks at Legolas. And they both know. And the Elf smiles. And there is a pause.

“Have you waited long?” he asks, bowing his head like a dwarfling, suddenly bashful.

“Even if you never came to me, my heart is gladdened enough to have you as my friend.” he replies. “But Elves are patient.”

And Gimli smiles at that, and there is a reddening in his ruddy cheeks.

“An odd pair we make.” he remarks.

“An odd pair we have always made.” he laughs. With eyes cast down, he slips his hand into Gimli’s palm and finds no resistance. “I feel so young.” he remarks again, and giggles as he did as a child in his father’s halls.

Gimli hears the sound and a giddiness wells up, swells into laughter that could make the trees tremble. He grips Legolas’ hand now, and they embrace in such a way that is not really all that different from when they had met only days ago. But a great weight has been lifted from both of them and they feel a new sweetness to this familiar friend. It is like the first sight of home on the horizon.

That morning Legolas sings a song of spring after winter and summer before fall. The leaves dance in the gale and the sun rises, shining.

* * * 

“May I braid your hair?”

The question came out of the sweet air on the edge of Fangorn clear as the birdsong. Gimli leaned back and tilted his head in consideration, lips pursed around his pipe. A wispy grey cloud billowed around him as he breathed. The Elf’s hair, draped as silk over the curve of his shoulders, was also unbound under the late morning sun. The Dwarf supposed there was purpose to this.

He blew a puff of smoke from his lips and smiled. “Aye, I suppose now would be the time for it.” Legolas smiled in return, breath escaping him like a flight of birds. “And I shall braid yours.”

Gimli put out his pipe and pulled himself to his feet, trudging over to where Legolas sat. They had always sat together, since the long days in Lothlorien too many years ago. The new nature of their relationship had not actually changed this much. Neither had it changed the Elf’s distaste for the smoke of Gimli’s habit. The Dwarf could stand the temporary absence for a sweet minute of pipeweed.

But now he took a velvet purse from his kit and plumped himself down at Legolas’ feet, his back to the Elf as he situated himself between a pair of splayed knees. Over his shoulder he handed Legolas the fine-woven bag, and the Elven prince took it with much curiosity.

Inside was an assortment of combs and oils. The private Dwarven customs of hair-care were known to him now, but still he felt lost holding them, awkward as a baby deer taking its first steps in spring.

“Your Elvish hair is fair enough, but see how you fare against the untamed majesty of the Dwarves.” Gimli teased, and Legolas smiled, brushing idle fingers through the dense mass of graying red curls.

“’Untamed’ indeed. I fear it is a battle I am bound to lose, for never have I faced so great a foe.”

To this Gimli laughed, braying and bright. He slapped Legolas’ knee and the Elf’s heart soared. After years among mortals he’d grown used to conversing in this way, yet whenever he returned from traveling abroad with his kin he was forced to marvel again. Elves rarely speak, and rarer still do they speak directly. Amongst themselves they share such a bond that allows them to know the other without uttering a word. And even when they talk aloud they play with the unspoken and take great care in that left unsaid.

But to hear Gimli’s voice speak, and his own voice answer, and the air to be filled with laughter—it was a sweet and foreign delight.

He made his first attempt, oiling and combing through the thick mane that coated Gimli’s head. They spoke idly. After so many years apart, it can be difficult to know what remains newsworthy.

When he had finished, Gimli put a heavy hand on Legolas’ knee and pushed himself up. Then to the Elven prince’s surprise he turned, leaning up on his knees to meet Legolas’ eyes.

“Hold now,” he said, grinning. “You’re not done with me yet.”

Legolas realized that now he was meant to braid Gimli’s beard. And suddenly he felt the fluttering about his ribcage once again.

“Ah now, relax, my friend,” Gimli hummed, inclining his head slightly back. “In this I will guide you.”

Legolas smiled, “And what greater guide could I ask for?”

Gimli harrumphed, for Elvish flattery he knew no reply. Carefully, Legolas oiled Gimli’s beard, threading his long fingers through it.

“You know,” Gimli said. “If any of my kin were among us, we would appear quite scandalous.”

To this, Legolas couldn’t help but grin. “Meleth nîn, you have already shared my bed. In the eyes of my kin, we are already wed.”

This comment took a moment to register, but Legolas saw the sudden spark in Gimli’s eyes before the Dwarven Lord of the Glittering Caves tilted his head and began to laugh. It was a booming sound, rising from deep in the belly, and Legolas was forced to pause in his work for he was laughing as well.

“Ah, not much for ceremony, are you?” Gimli said, chuckling still. Legolas shook his head, smiling, silken hair waving. “Now I’ve been to my share of Elven weddings and I had thought the Elves to enjoy a great deal more fanfare than that.”

Legolas attempted to press on with his work through his giggling. “Well, yes, there is usually a ceremony—but as far as customs go…”

“Straight to the point.” Gimli said appreciatively, punctuating with an index finger to the air. “Now, I shouldn’t be telling you this—“

“Though you’ve never let that hinder you before.”

“—yes, well—ahrm, but Dwarves have a quite a range of marital ceremony dependent on the individuals involved. Though I’ve never cared for it, myself. Too much trouble.”

“Far too much.” Legolas echoed, humming in interest as he set to combing. Gimli had actually divulged these particular secrets to him before, but he knew what a joy the Dwarf had in telling them. And he did not mind listening again.

* * *

With Gimli’s careful guidance the Dwarven braids were set in place by Elven fingers. Then it was Legolas’ turn, and so the Elf sat before Gimli, legs crossed and patient. Gimli oiled his fingers out of habit, but realized quickly enough that it was Elven hair he was preparing to braid, not Dwarven. With a mutter he wiped his hands clean and set to work.

They were quiet for a time. Legolas thought it a peaceful silence, but Gimli saw fit that it should be broken.

“When do you plan to set sail?”

It took a moment for the question to register in the Elf’s head.

“Oh.” He said, a rare moment without eloquence, for he found that he did not know the answer. “When my work in Middle-Earth is done, I suppose.”

“And when will that be?”

He thought, and realized he had never spoken of this aloud to Gimli before. Something in him simply assumed the Dwarf knew. “It is more than the trees that bind my heart to this place.”

He paused, shutting his eyes to the feeling of fingers weaving through his hair.

“The sea pulls at me but I will not yet abandon Middle-Earth. Not while my dearest friends yet live.”

He felt the air of a sigh against his fine head.

“You shall not depart until after two of the Three Hunters have left you?”

Legolas unfolded his legs, tucking one knee against his chest. “After that I will have nothing to hold me here.”

They were quiet again. Gimli’s broad hands did what they could with this smooth gold, but it slipped through his fingers at times like water.

“Ah, the love between Elves and mortals,” he muttered. “Always makes for sad tales.”

Legolas said nothing. He understood that their time in Middle-Earth was limited, but purposefully had not given it much thought with Gimli here, at last.

He was no stranger to the absurdity of time. He had lived so very long, among Men and Hobbits and Dwarves, flitting in and out of lives that moved so terribly quickly. He knew what it was to say goodbye. All Elves who dared make friends with mortals did.

But the strangeness of it struck him then, and very hard. And now it seemed truly unfair how fast the days went by. And time that once seemed to stretch on forever felt as if it were vanishing before he could grasp it, and he felt that if he continued to dwell with it, he may weep.

“Elves can be such a melancholy people.” Gimli declared then, and it was not clear if he was speaking to Legolas or to the air or simply to himself. “Aye, I know the sweet pain of it. I feel it strike deep in my heart any time a memory of The Lady’s Golden Wood catches me unguarded. But you could use some good Dwarvish cheer.” And at this Legolas felt a warm and heavy hand patting against his back. “Songs to ease the day’s toil! To strengthen the heart! They must not sing songs only of the sorrow of our parting. They must also sing of the joy of our union.”

Now Legolas was weeping, despite himself, and put a hand to his lips to press the bitterness back.

“We must enjoy it while we may.” Gimli went on, and Legolas marveled at how the words came so easily. He missed the waver in the Dwarf’s sturdy voice, heard only the will the push through it. “I once thought it too strange, and strange it still is! The union of Dwarves and Elves! But still it is a wondrous thing. The world has not seen the like for Ages, if ever. It is much more worthy of song than yet another tale of Elves and Men.”

Then Gimli hummed, a rumble of stone between fine Elven shoulder blades. “And I would hear Elvish laughter again, before you all vanish from this world.”

Legolas swallowed, wiping his eyes with his slender fingers, and a quivering smile made its way to his lips, if not yet his eyes.

“Now speaking of songs,” Gimli went on, and there was lightness in his voice again. “I understand she was an Elf-maid, but a fine Luthien I think I would make, do you not agree?”

And at this Legolas found he laughed despite himself, and the laughter stole away some of the sorrow in his heart.

“Shall I steal you a Silmaril?” Legolas replied, and Gimli shook his head, chuckling.

“I would not wish for any one of the three, not for all the gems of my caves.”

“That shall save me some trouble, then.”

And together they sat, and Gimli finished Legolas’ braids, and together they laughed at the work the other had wrought. Gimli’s thick beard was a delicate tangle and Legolas’ Elven locks were done up in thick, curling ropes. But still they each wore what the other had fashioned for them.

There was grief that sat waiting in their hearts, and knowing it did not make it easier to bear. And yet they were comforted. Stubbornly and in spite of it, they were comforted.


End file.
